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About The Henry County weekly. (McDonough, GA.) 18??-1934 | View Entire Issue (April 27, 1923)
The BLIND MAN’S EYES Q By Will iam MacHarg Edwin Balmer Copyright by Little, Brown and Company CHAPTER XXl—Continued. —l7 As he struggled forward, Impatient at these delays, he came several times upon narrow, unguarded roads and crossed them; at other times the little wilderness which protected him changed suddenly to a well-kept lawn where some great house with its garages and outbuildings loomed ahead, and afraid to cross these open places, he was obliged to retrace his steps and find a way round. The dis tance from the bridge to the place where the men he was following had got out of their motor, he had thought to be about two miles; but when he had been traveling more than an hour, he had not yet reached it. Then, suddenly he came upon the road for which lie was looking; somewhere to the east along it was the place he sought. He crouched as near to the road as he dared and where he could look up and down it. This being a main road, was guarded. A motor car with armed men in it passed Him. and presently repassed, evidently pa troling the road; its lights showed him a man with a gun standing nt the first bend of the road to the east. Eaton drew further bacK and moved parallel to the road but far enough away from it to be hidden. A quarter of a mile further he found a second man. The motorcar, evidently, was patroling only to this point; another car was on duty beyond this. As Eaton halted, this second car ap proached, and was halted, backed and turned. Its headlights swept through the woods and revealed Eaton. The man standing in the road cried out the alarm and fired at Eaton point blank; he tired a second and third time. Eaton fled madly back into the shad ow; as lie did so, he heard the men crying to one another and leaping from the car and following him. He retreated to the woods, went further along and came back to the road, ly ing flat upon his face again and wait ing till some other car In passing should give him light to see. Eaton, weak and dizzy from his wounds and confused by darkness and his struggle through the woods, had no exact idea how long it had taken him to get to this place; but he knew that it could have been hardly less than two hours since he had left Har riet. The men he was following, therefore, had that much start of him, and this made him wild with im patience but did not discourage him. His own wounds, Eaton understood, made his escape practically impossi ble, because any one who saw him would at once challenge and detain him; and the other man was still more seriously wounded. It was not his es cape that Eaton feared; it was con cealment of him. The mun had been taken from the car because His condi tion was so serious that there was no hope of hiding it; Eaton thought he must be dead. He expected to find the body concealed under dead leaves, hurriedly hidden. The night had cleared a little; to the north, Eaton could see stars. Sud denly the road and the leafless bushes at its sides flashed out in the bright light of a motorcar passing. Eaton strained forward. He had found the place he sought; there was no doubt a car had turned off the road some time before and stopped there. The passing of many cars had so tracked the road that none of the men In the motors seemed to have noticed any thing of significance there; but Eaton saw plainly in the soft ground at the edge, of the woods the footmarks of two men walking one behind the other. When the car had passed, he crept forward in the dark and fingered the distinct heel and toe marks in the soft soil. For a little distance he could follow them by fe..ing; then as they led him into the edge of the woods the ground grew harder and he could no longer follow them In that way. It was plain to him what had oc curred ; two men had got out of the car here and had lifted out and car ried away a third. He knelt where he could feel the last footsteps he could detect and looked around. The wound in his shoulder no long er bled, but the pain of it twinged him through and through; his head throbbed with the hurt there; his feet were raw and bleeding where sharp and branches had cut through his socks and torn the flesh; his skin was hot and dry with fever, and his head swam. There was not yet light enough to see any distance, but ' ’aton, accus tomed to the darkness and bending close to the ground, could discern the footmarks even on the harder soil. They led away from the road Into the woods. On the rotted leaves and twigs was a dark stain; a few steps beyond there was another. Eaton picking up a leaf and fingering it, knew’ that they were blood. So the man was not dead when he had been lifted from the car. But he had been hurt desperately, was unable to help himself, was probably dying; if there had been any hope for him, His com panions would not be carrying him In this way away from any cnance of surgical attention. Eaton followed, as the tracks led through the woods. The men had gone very slowly, carrying tills heavy weight. They had stopped frequently to rest and had laid their burden down. Then suddenly he came to a place where plainly a longer halt had been made. The ground was trampled around this spot; when the tracks went on they were changed in character. The two men were still carrying the third —a heavy man whose weight strained them and made their feet sink In deeply where the ground war soft. But now they were not careful how they carried him, but went forward merely as though bearing a uead weight. Now, too, no more stains ap peared on the brown leaves where they had passed; their burden no longer bled. Eaton, realizing what this meant, felt neither exultation nor surprise. He had known that the man they carried, though evidently alive when taken from the car, was dying. But now he watched the tracks more closely even than before, look ing for them to show him where the men had got rid of tlieir burden. It was quite plain what had oc curred ; the wet sand below was train pled by the feet of three or four men and cut by a boat’s bow. They had taken the body away with them in the boat. To sink it somewhere weighted with heavy stones in the deep water? Eaton’s search wa. hopeless now. But it could not be so; it must not be sol Eaton’s eyes searched fever ishly the shore and the lake. But there was nothing in sight upon either. He crept back from the edge of the bluff, hiding beside a fallen log banked witn dead leaves. What was It he had said to Harriet? “I will come back to you—as you have never known me before!” He rehearsed the words In mockery. How would he re turn to her now? As he moved, a fierce, hot pain from the clotted wound in his shoulder shot him through and through with agony and the silence and darkness of unconsciousness over whelmed him. CHAPTER XXII Not Eaton—Overton. Santoine awoke at five o’clock. The blind man felt strong and steady; he had food brought him; while he was eating it, his messenger returned. Santoine saw the man alone and, when he had dismissed him, he sent for his daughter. Harriet went up to him fearfully. The blind man seemed calm and quiet; a thin, square packet lay on the bed beside him; he held it out to her without speaking. She snatched it in dread; the shape of the packet and the manner in which it was fastened told her it must be a photograph. "Open it,” her father directed. “What is it you want to know, Fa ther?" she asked. “That Is the picture of Eaton?” “Yes.” “I thought so.” She tried to assure herself of the shade of the meaning in her father’s tone; but she could not. She under stood that her recognition of the pic ture had satisfied him in regard to something over which he had seen In doubt; but whether this was tj work in favor of Hugh and herself—she thought of herself now inseparably with Hugh—or whether it threatened them, she could not tell. “Father, what does this mean?” she cried to him. “What, dear?” “Your having the picture. Where did you get it?” “I knew where It might be. I sent for it." “But —but, Father —” It came to her now that her father must know who Hugh was. “Who—” “I know who he is now,” ser fa ther said calmly. “I will tell you wtun I can.” “When you can?” “Yes,” he said. “Where Is Avery?” as though his mind had gone to an other subject Instantly. “He has not been in, I believe, since noon.” “He is overseeing the search for Eaton ?" “Yes.” “Send for him. Tell him I wish to see him here at the house; he is to remain within the house until I have seen him.” Something in her father’s tone HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH, GEORGIA. startled ana perplexed her; she thought of Donald now only as the most eager and most vindictive of Eaton’s pursuers. Wa* her father removing Donald from among those seeking Eaton? Was he sending for him because what he had just learned was something which would mnke more rigorous and desperate the search? The blind man's look and manner told her nothing. "You mean Donald is to wait here until you send for him, Father?” “That is it.” It was the blind man’s tone of dis missal. He seemed toJmve forgotten the picture; at least, ire his daughter moved toward the door, he ~ave no direction concerning it. She halted, looking bock nt him. She would not carry the picture away, secretly, like this. She was not ashamed of her love for-Eaton; whatever might he said or thought of him, she trusted him; she was proud of her love for him. “May I take the picture?” rhe asked steadily. “Do whatever you want with it,” her father answered quietly. And so she took It with her. She found a servant of whom she inquired for Avery; he had not returned so she sent 'w him. She went down to the deserted library and waited there with the picture of Hugh in her hand. The day had drawn to dusk. She could no longer see the picture in the fading light; shg could only recall ItD and now, as the recalled it, the pfc ture Itself —not her memory of her father’s manner iu relation to it — gave her vague discomfort. She got up suddenly, switched on the light and, holding the picture close to It, studied it. What it was in the pic ture that gave her this strange un easiness quite separate and distinct from nil that she had felt when she first looked nt It, she could not tell; but the more she studied it, the more troubled and frightened she grew. The picture was a plain, unre touched print pasted upon common square cardboard without photogra pher’s emboss or signature; and printed with the picture, were four plain, distinct numerals —8253. She did not know what they meant or if they had any real significance, but somehow now she was more afraid for Hugh than she had been. She trembled as she held the picture again to her cheek and then to her lips. She turned; some one had come in from tlie hall; it was Donald. She saw at her first glance at him that his search had not yet succeeded and she threw her head back In relief. See ing tlie light, he had looked into the library idly; but when he sa 7 her, he approached her quickly. “What have you there?” he demand ed of her. She flushed at the tone- “What right have you to ask?” Her instant Impulse had been to conceal the pic ture, but that would make It seem she was ashamed of It; she held It so Don ald could see it if he looked. He did look and suddenly seized the picture from her. “Where did you get this, Harriet?” “Don!” “Where did you get it?” he repeat ed. “Are you ashamed to say?” “Ashamed? Father gave it to me I” “Your father!” Avery started; but if anything had caused him apprehen sion, It instantly disappeared. “Then didn’t he tell you who this man Eaton is? What did he say to you?" “What do you mean, Don?” He put the picture down on the table beside him and, as she rushed for It, he seized both her hands and held her before him. “Harry, dear!” he said to her. “Harry, dear—” “Don’t call me that! Don’t speak to me that way!" She struggled to free herself from him. “I know, of course,” he said. "It’s because of him.” He jerked his head toward the picture on the table; the manner made her furious. “Let me go, Don!” “I’m sorry, dear.” He drew her to him, held her only closer. “Don; Father wants to see you! He wanted to know when he came in; he will let you know when you can go to him.” “When did he tell you that? When he gave you the picture?” “Yes.” Avery had almost let her go; now he held her hard again. “Then he wanted me to tell you about this Eaton.” “Why should he have you tell me about —Mr. Eaton?” “You know!” he said to her. “What have you to say about him, Donald?” “You must never think of him again, dear; you must forget him forever!” “Donald, I am not a child. If you have something to say which you con sider hard for me to hear, tell It to me at ouce.” “Very well. Perhaps that is best. Dear, either this man whom you have known as Eaton will never be found or, if he is found, he cannot be let to live. Harry, have you never seen a picture with the numbers printed in below like that? Can’t you guess yet where your father must have sent for that picture? Don’t you know what those numbers mean?” “What do thev mean?” “They are the figures of his num ber in what is called ‘The Rogues’ Gallery.’ And they moan he has com mitted a crime and been tried an;! convicted of It; they mean In this case that he has committed a murder I” “A murder!” "For which he was convicted aud sentenced.” “Sentenced!” “Yes; and is alive now only because before the sentence could be carried out, he escaped. That man, Philip Eaton, is Hugh—” “Hugh !” “Hugh Overton, Harry!” “Hugh Overton!” “Yes; I found It out today. The police have just learned It, too. I was coming to tell your father. He’s Hugh Overton, the murderer of Mat thew Latron!” “No; no!” ‘Wes, Harry; for this man Is cer tainly Hugh Overton.” B Isn t so I I know It Isn’t so!" ‘W ou mean he told you he was—• some one else, Harry?" “No; I mean—" She faced him de fiantly. “Father let ine keep the pho tograph. I asked him, and he said, ‘Do whatever you wish with it.’ He knew I meant to keep it! He knows who Hugh Is, so lie would not have said that, if—lf—» She heard a sound behind her nnd turned. Her father had come Into the room. And ns she saw his man ner and bis face she knew that what Avery had just told her was the truth. She shrank away from them. Her bands went to her face and bid it. She knew now why It was that her father, on bearing Hugh’s voice, had be come curious about him, had tried to place the voice In It is recollection —- tlie voice of a prisoner on trial for his life, heard only for an Instant hut fixed upon his mind by the circum stances attending It, though those cir cumstances afterward had been for gotten. She knew why she, when she bad gazed at the picture a few minutes before, bad been disturbed and fright ened at feeling it to be a kind of pic ture unfamiliar to her and threatening her with something unknown and ter rible. She knew the reason now for a score of tilings Hugh had said to her, for the way he bad looked many times when she had spoken to him. It ex plained all that! It seemed to her, In the moment, to explain everything— except one tiling. It did not explain Hugh himself; the kind of man he was, the kind of man she knew him to be —the man she loved —he could not be a murderer! Her bands dropped from her face; she threw her head back proudly and triumphantly, as she faced now both Avery and her father. “He, the murderer of Mr. Latron!” she cried quietly. “It Isn’t so I” The blina man was very pale; be was fully dressed. A servant had sup ported him and helped him down the stairs and still stood beside him sus taining him. Blit the will which hnd conquered his disability of blindness was holding him firmly now against the disability of his hurts; be seemed composed nnd steady. She saw com passion for her in Ills look; nnd com passion—under tlie present circum stances —terrified her. Stronger, far more in control of him than his com passion for her, she saw purpose. Sho recognized that her father bad como to a decision upon which he now was going to act; she knew that nothing she or anyone else could say would alter that decision and that he would employ his every power in acting upon it. The blind man seemed to check him self an instant In the carrying out of his purpose; he turned his sightless eyes toward her. There was emotion in his look; but, except that this emo tion was in part pity for her, she could not tell exactly what ids look expressed. “Will you wait for me outside, Har riet?” he said to her. “I shall not be long.” She hesitated; then she felt sud denly the futility of opposing him and she passed him and went out into the hall. The servant followed her, clos ing the door behind him. She stood Just outside the door listening. She beard her father —she could catch the tone; she could not make out the words —asking a question; she heard the sound of Avery’s response. She started back nearer the door and put her hand on It to open It; inside they were still talking. Rlie caught Avery’s tone more clearly now, and it sudden ly terrified her. She drew back from the door and shrank away. There had been no opposition to Avery In her father’s tone; she was certain now that he was only discussing with Avery what tfte.v were to do. (TO BE CONTINUED.) Great Man’s Words of Wisdom. Most of the misery and suffering that afflicts mankind might be ex tinguished if men would do unto others as they would have others do unto them, in mutual offices of com passion, benevolence and kindness. “Win hearts, and you have all men’s hands and purses."—Burleigh. Course Teacher Needs. The greater part of the art of teach ing a child consists in having more sense than the child. —San Francisco Chronicle. I After Every Meal WRKH.EYS I Top off each meal | with a bit of I sweet fln the form ■ of WRIGLEY'S. I It satisfies the # sweet tooth and / aids digestion. I Pleasure and cmblncd. s.fi®crs For FORDSON and larger mills, we have hundreds of Fordsons cutting 5-m. to 8-m. per day with three to four men, some clearing SSO per day, the owner being the jawyer; no overhead expense. 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